The Serpent Club

By Tom Coffey

Tom Coffey delivers a gut-wrenching debut, a sensational thriller that could be torn from today's headlines. Plunging deep into the morality of a city renowned for sin -- Los Angeles -- this edgy, piercing novel will carve its way into your psyche.
Her name is Megan Wright. Pretty. Thirteen. Nice house. Private school. When she is raped and murdered, it's a story, and Ted Lowe is the one to report it. He's been a reporter for many years, but this is the first time he actually sees a body. Megan was indeed pretty. The crime scene is anything but.
As Ted smoothly uncovers the facts surrounding Megan's death, he finds that the glittery facade of her perfect life was just that -- a thin veneer easily wiped away with the answers to a few well-placed questions. The suspects slowly accumulate: the cold-as-ice mother, the deadbeat surfer father, the friends, the boyfriend who happens to be the son of one of the richest men in California. It could be any one of them. For any reason.
As the spun-out decay of an entire city closes in around Ted, he realizes there are people who do not want this case solved. And if the life of a thirteen-year-old girl was worth taking, so is the life of a reporter who has seen too much.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atria Books
• Release date: Mar 18, 2003
• ISBN: 9780743482349

Book preview

Part One

I like the night. It’s more honest than the day. Things are hidden but there’s much to hear—police sirens, lovemaking, echoes of gunfire. Sometimes I make out music wafting through an open window.

I like the anticipation that strikes me as the sun goes down. I feel energized by the waiting, but wanting is always better than having.

Murders are done in the dark; plots hatched; husbands and wives lied to.

I spend most of my days discovering what happened at night.

I hate the screamers, the ones who weep and wail and wonder aloud at the fate of whoever it is I’m writing about, always saying they never believed this could happen to them although the one great lesson of the modern world is it can happen to anyone, anytime; we are all potential victims.

We look for motivation behind the violence—why did he do it, why did it happen to her? Those questions are pointless of course. Things happen because they do.

I liked Megan’s mother.

I get a hamburger at a drive-through place and watch CNN at home. When I get bored with that, I turn on the stereo. Then I flip through a magazine.

I’m familiar with all the space in my apartment. I know where the rug is wearing thin and where the furniture is scratched and where the cracks are forming in the walls. I know which stains on the stove are impossible to remove.

I hear there are coffeehouses now in Hollywood. I hear they’re the hot new thing.

I’ve never met Kristen’s father; I don’t know what he looks like; there are no pictures of him around the house. I’ve heard his voice on the phone a few times. He’s an air traffic controller who speaks in flat and even tones, like a guy who doesn’t get too excited about things.

I once asked Noreen why she got divorced. She said it was because she wasn’t happy.

Are you happy now? I asked.

No, she said. I’m still unhappy. But in a different way.

I was eating an ice cream bar in the kitchen at Noreen’s house.

Do you know how many calories that thing has? she asked.

I confessed that I didn’t.

Four hundred. And how many grams of fat?

I shook my head.

Twenty. And you stay thin.

I’ve always been thin.

She sat at the opposite end of the table. Her face was flushed.

It’s so unfair, she said.

At the checkout line in the supermarket I always flip through the pages of the Grocery Press. I have a special fondness for Elvis sightings.

I saw him right there, the heavyset woman tells a reporter. She lives in a trailer park. "I came in to play the Pick Six and saw him by the frozen pizzas and I couldn’t believe my eyes, but I walked up to him anyway, just as plain as could be, and told him that Viva Las Vegas is my favorite movie of all time, and he smiled at me in the way only he can and said, ‘Thank you, ma’am; you’re very kind,’ and then he paid for his food and walked away.

I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

As I walk toward my car I feel myself being pulled into the night. I enjoy the anonymity and cover only darkness can bring. The strap from my bag digs into my shoulder but I don’t mind the pain; I know I deserve it; I want the weight to hurt some more. The bag contains all my sins. It represents everything I’ve done wrong. It’s my burden and it would only be right if I had to carry it forever.

When I was three or four I was standing in the middle of the street, several houses down from mine, while a few feet away a big white dog with black spots and a bad temper snapped and snarled, and I couldn’t recall how I’d gotten there and I was afraid to run and I was afraid the dog would kill me and above all else I didn’t know why this animal was tormenting me because I hadn’t done anything.

Sometimes I have nightmares about a hound or Doberman or mastiff lunging at me with no warning, knocking me to the ground as it growls and drools and bares its carnivore teeth, tearing at my throat as it pins me down. In the nightmare, I don’t have time to scream.

Sometimes when I sit at my tube and stare at the words I’ve typed I wonder about the machine and the weird rays it emits while it does what it was designed to do. I wonder if I’m being bombarded with radiation and if I’m going to get cancer and if They know about it but haven’t told anyone.

Some of my pregnant colleagues wear lead-lined aprons at their workstations.

Helluva story you’re working on, one of the old-timers said to me at the watercooler.

I mumbled something that I hoped he interpreted as appreciation. The guy has always made me nervous. He owns a lot of guns.

Why are you so obsessed with it? he asked.

I’m not obsessed, I said.

There is nothing beyond our life. There is nothing beyond what we know. In times that were less knowledgeable—some might call them less civilized—the ancients invented God to explain why things happen. They were afraid to accept the arbitrariness of life, too ignorant to understand the great cosmic joke that the universe itself is just a gigantic accident.

Today we know better. I see lots of bumper stickers that say SHIT HAPPENS.

One

There’s a body at the top of Sepulveda Pass. I want more information but that’s all I hear before the scanner moves on to robberies and assaults and domestic disputes.

I could use a story so I drive to the scene. I know the shortcuts.

Two squad cars and an unmarked vehicle are parked beside the road. It’s not much really. A uniformed cop stops me at the edge of the roped-off area, but I recognize the detective standing over the body. I call his name.

Let him through, the detective says. He’s okay.

The cop stands aside. Fucking vulture, he says.

I walk up a slight slope and shake hands with Frank Gruley. He points at the ground. Below us is a girl who looks to be twelve or thirteen. She’s naked except for a pair of white socks. A thin layer of dirt and sand covers her body. Bugs whiz by, settle on her, take off. I notice patches of dried blood on her face and head, part of which has been smashed open.

Was she killed here? I ask.

He shakes his head. Dumped.

ID?

Not yet.

I make the notes and walk back to my car. Gruley goes with me. He says the girl most likely was raped. There are bruises on her genitalia and traces of semen. He says a case like this can bother him. He’s a professional but he has two girls himself and he can’t stop imagining what might happen. I tell him it sounds awful, having to worry all the time.

He says they think several perps were involved but they’ll have a better idea once the tests are done. The hair and fiber guys went over her thoroughly. The girl was beaten over the head with a blunt instrument, probably a baseball bat. They found slivers of wood in her skull. Near the body was a footprint, size ten and made by a shoe nobody recognizes. This could be important. Or maybe it isn’t.

They think the girl put up a fight. Some skin from another person was found under her fingernails.

The detective scratches the ground with his shoes. Their leather is dusty and faded, and I wonder how long he intends to keep wearing them.

That’s the first body I’ve ever seen, I tell Gruley.

What did you think?

Why would somebody do that to someone?

Usually it’s because they feel like it.

Back at the office I write the story. It’s only a few paragraphs long.

•  •  •

I walk around to the rear of Noreen’s place, past the red Volvo with an AAA sticker and the garbage cans and the papers set out for recycling. As I let myself in, I hear a dog barking in a distant yard. He sounds angry about something.

Is that you? she asks.

No, I reply.

Noreen watches the news in the living room. The colors from the set reflect back, turning her normally translucent skin blue and purple. There was a smog alert today in the Valley.

Where’s Kristen? I ask.

At her father’s. She’s at her father’s every Thursday. I’ve told you that.

I kiss her on the cheek. She keeps chewing a piece of gum. I wonder if I’ve done something wrong and decide I must have. She asks what I’d like for dinner. I say it doesn’t matter. She says she doesn’t feel like cooking and I say that’s all right. We can order takeout we can get a pizza we can go someplace. It doesn’t matter.

We eat Mexican. Noreen knows the owner. Raul engages in a bit of a fuss and my ladyfriend smiles at the waitress. When the meal is over Raul insists on joining us for a drink. I’d prefer to leave.

Things are very bad, Raul says.

I say the place is crowded. Business looks fine.

That’s not what I mean, he says. I’m talking about the gangs and the drugs and the lack of values. Nobody cares about anything anymore.

People used to care, I say. It never accomplished anything.

•  •  •

The girl’s name is Megan Wright. That’s the first thing I learn at work. She went to a private school in Sherman Oaks and her teachers say she’d just started, but she seemed to fit in. That’s the most important thing at that age. Fitting in.

I call Gruley and ask how he made the ID. He says it’s his fucking job to make an ID in cases like these. I say I realize that but I’d like some specifics. He says they matched her against a missing person’s report. The mother made the ID at the morgue.

How’d she react? I ask.

All things considered, she was pretty calm.

My editor wants a picture of the girl.

The Wrights live in one of those communities that’s surrounded by a high stucco wall and protected by a gate and booth occupied by a minimum-wage security guard. A couple of TV trucks are parked outside, so I continue to drive. On Ventura I pull into a strip mall and take out the reverse directory I keep under the driver’s seat. The police scanner reports that an elderly couple has been found bound and gagged in their home in Reseda. The woman has had a heart attack. Emergency units are responding to the scene.

After a few tries on my car phone, I find a house near Megan’s that seems unoccupied. I use papers and notebooks to stuff a package from a courier service that I keep for situations like this. Then I drive back. The guard leans out of his cage as I pull up. I display the package and say I have to deliver it to Mr. Roswell’s house. I’m from the office and it’s important he get the material right away.

The guard rings the house. There’s no answer, he says. I can take that for him.

I have to deliver this personally. Can you let me in? It’ll take five minutes.

You know where you’re going?

I assure him I do.

The gate goes up. I enter a world of winding streets and lookalike houses, putty-colored with red roofs. Street signs with large eyes at the top advertise the presence of Neighborhood Watch.

When I find the Wrights’ address I park in the driveway and walk to the door as if I belong. The blinds are drawn and I hear no sound except for the bell echoing through uninhabited rooms. As I head back to the car I rehearse what I’ll tell my editor.

What do you want?

It’s a female voice. It demands attention. I haven’t heard anything open but she’s standing in the doorway, her form bordered by the frame. With the cool dark of the house behind her, nothing about this woman is distinct.

I wasn’t expecting anybody. They didn’t call from the gate. What do you want?

I identify myself and ask if she’s Megan’s mother. She says she is.

I’m terribly sorry about what happened, I say.

The words spill out of me. I’ve said them before. I’ve said them so often.

I know this seems rude and intrusive, but I’d like to take a minute of your time and ask you some questions. I want to find out what kind of a girl your daughter was.

The woman says nothing. She stands perfectly still.

I want to make sense of this tragedy, I say. For myself and for my readers.

I’m almost at the door. I’ve approached it slowly.

Sometimes it’s good, I say. Sometimes it’s good to talk.

She tells me to come in.

We stand in the hall a few seconds. Her eyes are clear and she’s wearing a touch of makeup. She’s dressed in white shorts and a pale pink top. I tell her the house is nice. She thanks me and asks if I need anything. For a second I think about the picture, but it’s too soon to mention it. She leads me into the living room and perches on the edge of a leather sofa. I take a high-backed chair. The woman’s posture is perfect and her hair is blond and I figure she’s about the same age as Noreen. She puts her hands on her knees, looks at me directly and tells me to go ahead.

When did you first think something was wrong?

She says she got home quite late that night—it was the night before last, as she recalls—and didn’t bother to check on the kids. It wasn’t until morning—

Excuse me, I find myself saying.

I don’t have children so I’m unsure how these things are handled, but I know my girlfriend always looks in on Kristen after we’ve been out. So I ask:

Why didn’t you check on them?

It was quite late, she says. I was very tired. I work hard.

I tell her I understand. I ask her to continue.

She says it was only in the morning that she began to realize what had happened. Jeffrey (that’s her youngest) got ready for school and came downstairs for breakfast while she discussed what needed to be done that day with Maria (that’s her housekeeper), and all the while she had a terrible headache and it was getting late and there was no sign of Megan so she asked Maria to go upstairs and fetch the girl. A few seconds later Maria came running down saying Megan wasn’t there and the bed hadn’t been slept in and somebody had better do something. Actually she was carrying on in Spanish so it took a few minutes to figure out, but once they did she called the police. They told her the girl had probably run away. She’d turn up in a couple of days. Most of them do.

Did they say anything else? I ask.

They told me not to worry.

I ask if Megan had seemed upset about anything in the days before she died, if she was anxious or preoccupied about something, if an event out of the usual had occurred that might have some bearing on what happened.

She stayed out late a few times, Megan’s mother says. We fought about that. And she bought some terrible clothes her last few trips to the mall. I tried to make her take them back, but she wouldn’t.

She was discovering boys and staying over at friends’ houses and talking on the phone for hours on end. She was keeping a diary. She was starting to have secrets but all girls do, especially from their mothers.

Have you looked at her diary? I ask.

No. And I won’t. The diary was hers. I have no right to read it.

The police might want it.

They can’t have it. I’d burn it before I’d give it to them.

I ask if she has any theories about who could have done it or why. She looks up at the ceiling and down at her hands, then twists her fingers around each other until the veins in her wrists stick out. I notice that she’s wearing no rings. She hasn’t alluded to a husband or father.

She shakes her head and says this whole thing is puzzling to her. Perhaps it was drug addicts who thought she had money or just did it for the thrill. There seems to be a lot of that these days.

I thank her for her time. As she leads me to the door she says she hopes I got something useful. She’s never seen her name in the paper. I tell her she’s been more than cooperative and I appreciate what she’s done and then I say there’s just one more thing…one more thing that would help.

She asks what it is.

I say I’d like a picture. My editors want to run it with the story to let our readers know what this wonderful young girl looked like and who knows, maybe somebody saw something.

She says she’ll be right back. After she disappears I look around. The front hall has some prints of Impressionist paintings. Off to the side is a den with a large-screen TV. In back is a kitchen that’s light, open and airy. Beyond that a swimming pool glitters in the yard.

Megan’s mother returns with her arm outstretched.

At the gate the guard says I took more than five minutes. I apologize for getting lost. I tell him I didn’t know where I was going after all.

Noreen says she can’t believe the woman was so calm. In fact she can’t believe Megan’s mother even talked to me.

When we go to bed I tell her to let loose. That’s what I want. I know she wants it too. She can yell, she can scream, she can let me know exactly what I’m doing to her.

She says she can’t. She’s afraid of waking Kristen.

When we’re through Noreen asks if I’ve ever considered getting another job. I say I don’t know what else I could do. I have a pretty good salary and my work is more interesting than most and I’m not qualified to go into business, if that’s what she has in mind.

You’re wrong, she says. You’re limiting yourself. There are other things you can do.

Like what?

Public relations. Advertising. Businesses are always looking for people who can communicate.

I tell her I like what I do.

Megan’s hair is dark and teased and falls over the left side of her face. Her eyebrows are quite dark.

They changed the lead.

Noreen tells Kristen to put on her blue dress. It’s just been cleaned and today’s the class picture. Doesn’t she want to look good for the class picture? Kristen says she’d look fine in a sweatshirt.

Megan’s face is thin but not pinched. Her eyes are deep-set. I wonder what color they were. I should have looked at the photo more carefully before I gave it away.

Put on your dress.

I don’t want to.

Put it on.

"Moooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!"

I pour some coffee that I made myself. I don’t trust Noreen. She keeps trying to give me decaf.

The dress hangs limply on Kristen, reminding me of a flag on a windless day. I say hello in as cheerful a tone as I can muster. I once read that children like bright, happy sounds. Kristen takes out a box of cereal and dumps it into a bowl.

Megan’s nose is small and straight, and I notice she’s wearing an earring. I try to figure out why they changed the lead.

Mooommmmmmm!

What?

I want some juice!

Can’t you get it yourself?

I’m eating my cereal!

I go to the refrigerator, take out the juice and pour it into a glass. Kristen glares as I put it in front of her.

The corners of Megan’s mouth are turned up slightly. For a moment I think of the Mona Lisa.

I’m glad for this chance to see her whole.

Two

After her name and address become part of the public record, the media camp out just beyond the gate. The news at noon has shots of a car with tinted windows rolling into the street. Cameras and microphones and reporters bang into the vehicle. I hear what sound like shouted questions but they overlap, step on each other, cancel out. The car breaks free of the pack and speeds away. Megan’s mother heads into seclusion.

I write a short piece that says police are doing what they can but there are no suspects, no motives, no new clues. They’ve set up a hotline for people who might have information. The number is toll-free of course.

Fresh deaths await me—a gang shooting in Compton, a bar brawl in El Monte, a robbery victim found at home in Van Nuys. That one is nasty. She was discovered bound and gagged and she’d been raped, and whoever did it extinguished their cigarettes on her flesh. The house was ransacked. Police say they’ve rarely seen an attack so vicious and only a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of jewelry is missing.

My editor says she’s pleased with the story and glad I got the picture. She’s going to put me in for a prize.

I could get thirty dollars.

Frank Gruley tells me that Megan’s father lives near the beach. He gives this to me exclusively. He says he’s doing it as a favor. He says I’m a good guy. He says I owe him one.

When I ring the bell a woman answers. She looks about twenty-five, with a permanent tan. I ask if Megan’s father is there and she says he’s at the surf shop around the corner.

Does he own the place? I ask.

No. He just works there.

She looks at me with a slight frown, as if she thinks she should recognize me. Maybe we met at some long-forgotten party. Perhaps I interviewed her after somebody got killed. Or she could just be shocked by my appearance. It must be years since she’s seen a man wearing a tie.

She asks if I’m the guy who called last night. I say I might be.

He’s usually behind the counter, she says. He’s expecting you.

The surf shop is bright and features the canned sound of waves rhythmically swiping the beach. Near the cash register is a guy with the bronzed, well-muscled look of a man engaged in nonstop battle against the onset of middle age. I identify myself and ask if he’s Megan’s father. He says he is. I say it’s a shame what happened. He has my condolences. From everything I’ve heard she seemed like a nice young girl. He says he wouldn’t know. It wasn’t like they were close or anything.

I ask when he saw her last.

He says he isn’t sure. It might have been Christmas. He remembers he got her something and he thinks it was a bathing suit and a nice big beach towel, but he can’t be certain. His ex-wife would probably know. She’s good at things like that. I ask if he has any special memories of Megan, anything at all. He says he remembers taking her to Disneyland once when she was small, like four or five or six or seven, and she was all excited and went on every ride and tried to pull the ears off Mickey Mouse.

I ask when he and Megan’s mother got divorced.

He says it was just after Jeffrey was born. The two of them were drifting apart. It was nobody’s fault.

I ask how he makes a living.

He says the surf shop supports him fine. In fact he’s expecting an important customer at any minute.

Feral-looking men toting packs of equipment take up positions outside the church, ready to shoot anything that’s news. The minister has barred them from entering. I think it’s because they’re all wearing T-shirts.

It’s nearly full inside. I slide into a pew in back. Up front Megan’s mother is shrouded in black. Next to her is a man who is not Megan’s father. He wears a dark suit, striped shirt and red tie. His hair is turning to gray. He sits with his hands on his knees and stares straight ahead, unblinking, jaw set. He must have been taught that this is the way men act.

Megan’s casket is covered with lilies.

The minister says she is with God now and we should be happy for her. It’s terrible when the life of one so young is taken so brutally, and everyone here extends their sympathy to Megan’s loving family. They have suffered a grievous loss. He understands from talking to those who knew her that she was a wonderful girl. He wishes he had been acquainted with her. Nonetheless from reading the Bible we know that God has a plan and, however incomprehensible it may seem, this is part of it. Sometimes the events of this world appear cruel, arbitrary and capricious, but we have to put our faith in Him and His divine wisdom. Just as Jesus said in the Gospel according to Luke—

Two blond boys are in the pew with Megan’s mother and the man accompanying her. One of the kids is small. I figure he must be Jeffrey. The other one is taller, thin but not skinny, with the golden brown skin and straw-colored hair that reflect a life spent at ski resorts and the beach. Behind the boys are rows of kids on either side of puberty. Some of the girls are crying. As their soft boohoos float through the church, infiltrating my ears, I ask myself if they’re really sad or if this display of emotion just seems like the right thing to do. Can they tell the difference between Megan’s killing and the thousands of fake ones they’ve seen on TV?

I look around the church and try to calculate the number of mourners. I’ve always been bad at estimating crowds, but the number I give will be treated as fact. I glance at my watch. I’ll go to the burial in case something happens. By the time I get to the office I’ll be right on deadline. I should have brought a laptop. I could have filed from the graveyard.

One of Megan’s classmates steps up to the pulpit. In a high-pitched voice that cracks every so often, she says she knew Megan for only a short time but she seemed nice and she’s really going to miss her.

They allow the mourners to leave before wheeling the casket down the aisle. Megan’s mother puts on sunglasses as she steps outside.

There she is.

The camera crews stir behind the barricade.

Get her.

Get the mother.

Make sure you get her.

I call Megan’s father at the surf shop.

I didn’t see you at the funeral, I say.

I don’t do funerals, he says. Besides, I had something going on down here.

I ask if he remembers where Megan went to school before she enrolled at her current one. He says he isn’t sure. I ask if his ex-wife and his children had lived in the gated community a long time and he says no, they just moved from West Covina. He doesn’t recall the exact address, but they’d been there for years. I say they made a big leap in one step and he says that’s true, but his ex-wife’s a smart woman and has never lacked ambition.

I

Reviews for The Serpent Club

[gac53 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The story started out well. The author provide excellent descriptions of the character. The story seemed to switch directions as if not really sure what the conclusion should be. I'd read another by this author as this is his first novel.

[repb_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Well, the old adage holds true: You can't judge a book by it's cover. The title and illustration have very little do with the dark interior. Coffey is a talented writer and obviously knows his way around court houses and newspapers. But this book is way too dark and ugly for me, and I hope most people. I only stuck with it to see if the bad guys got their just desserts, and in this case, one of the bad guys was the main character in the story. They didn't.

[daywsie000 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I've never read a novel by Tom COffey but I picked up this book in a sale at my library. Ted Lowe is a reporter for a newspaper who is stuck with an obsession to solve the case of a young girl who was murdered after he saw her battered body.From Ted's own personal demons to the problems of everyone else, the twists and turns throughout the book made it hard for me to put down even though I predicted the end results.